Reveal-ations: Reclamations
by Graysonation
Summary: "We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than anything anyone else can ever inflict." – Jim Morrison. Wise words. But does you do when the pain is real, right there, in front of you, monstrous, and slowly but surely killing every last inch of every last piece of what remains of you? What then?
1. Before Crying

**Author's Note: **Well, it doesn't exactly take a genius of Reid's standards to figure out that I am totally, completely, one-hundred-percent OBSESSED with the _Criminal Minds _episode "Revelations." I mean, halfa my stories on here seem to make some reference to the bloody thing! And, as always, when I was watching it last night – because I can't get the newest episode for Season Ten to load properly – I started thinking, "What if . . ."

As stated in the summary, this is to be the third and final part of my analysis of 'missing' scenes from the episode "Revelations." Not going to be a whole lot of action, just some insight into the stuff my darling Dr. Reid was going through during the time of his captivity with Tobias. I'll try to make stuff as canon as possible, and insert it into points where it'd make sense. Shouldn't be more than three chapters, if I've done my math right (unlikely . . . I suck at algebra . . .).

Anyhoo . . . this first shot takes place after Reid had become acquainted with all three of the Hankle personalities, and after he had been drugged by poor Tobias. This is Reid, waking up.

**Warning: **This writing exercise contains HUH-YUGE spoilers for _Criminal Minds_, Season 2, Episode 15. DUH. Also, there may be violence, illusions to violence, confirmed drug use, and thoughts of a darker adult nature. You've been warned.

**Disclaimer: **I grew into the very disturbed person I am with the help of this show; but, alas, _Criminal Minds_ is not something I list under my assets. Many kudos to those lucky bastards who _do_ have that right. *Sighs*

As always, review if you feel up to it, don't if you're down with it.

Enjoy, of course!

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><p><em>"Abandon hope, all ye who enter." – Dante, "The Inferno"<em>

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><p>When Spencer Reid awoke, it was not with the gentle lull of leaving Dreamland that one would normally expect, normally hope for; rather, the young man was ripped from his drug-induced slumber by a loud, creaking sound coming from the walls of the cabin surrounding him, and he was jolted back out of unconsciousness with a very quite, very startled, yelp.<p>

Looking around the cold, dark room, it took Reid's brilliant mind only seconds to remember where he was – and whom he was with.

He slammed his eyes immediately back shut, praying that he hadn't made enough noise to catch the attention of his abductor; no matter who it was he would be facing – Tobias, his father Charles, Raphael, or whoever the Hell else decided to show up for a little while – Reid didn't think he could handle it right now.

So, even hating himself for how childish it seemed, he kept his eyes tightly closed, and his vision dark, relying only on his other senses to orient himself.

He could still smell the lingering scent of burned fish livers permeating the room (_not that they did a very good job of 'keeping me safe,'_ he reflected bitterly) as well as a faint, underlying, musty sort of odor . . . Reid did his best to ignore the unpleasant stench, thinking that it must be coming from the wet fabric of Tobias's coat, or possibly even his own tired clothes; it had rained the previous night, after all.

_Last night,_ Reid thought to himself. _Is that all it's been? One day, since –_

Echoes filtered in his mind, of a gun clicking, a sorrowful voice, those words – _Shoot him, you weakling, he's a Satan! – _and his own frightened yowls of pain, all reverberating inside of his mind until, physically, it _hurt,_ making the young genius shudder, and he had to struggle to keep what remained of his composure.

He couldn't afford to lose it – not here, not now, when he was all by himself in some cabin in the middle of God-knew-where, Georgia.

Well, not totally all by himself, actually.

Reid tensed in his chair, straining to hear beyond the howling of the wind and calls of the early-morning birds; there was something else, behind him. Breathing. Slow, and deep, and rhythmic . . . hypnotizing. It would have been soothing, if Spencer hadn't known who it was sitting somewhere in the cabin with him.

His insides went cold at the thought of having to face Tobias, or any of his other personalities so soon, and he held still, not daring to breath, waiting for the other man to make a move.

Nothing. The breathing remained uninterrupted, and, while unsure whether his captor was awake or sleeping, Reid gulped, and was able to relax enough to think clearly again.

When he had glanced around earlier, he had been able to see a faint sliver of light coming from beneath the door to his left, . . . so he had slept through the entire previous evening, at least. So, he'd been missing for a day and a half already; why hadn't the team found him? What were they doing right now? _Where_ –

Reid shook his head more violently, trying to rid himself of the thoughts. There was nothing to suggest that the BAU wasn't already on their way to help him, nothing to say that he wouldn't be okay again before nightfall . . .

Except that they _hadn't _found them yet, hadn't even known who the unsub was until he had abducted Reid . . . and now, even after another day of presumably searching, he was still locked up, alone and terrified, at the hands of one – or was it three? – extremely psychotic individuals.

Spencer bit his lip, trying not to get swept up in the flood of memories assaulting his mind.

He _didn't_ _want _to think about his first encounter with Raphael, the one who their profile suggested would be the sensible, logical and stoic one. He _didn't want_ to remember the calm voice telling him that he was some sort of demon, or the way he had been shushed and ignored when he tried to plead his case. He definitely _did not want_ to recall the little game of Russian roulette he'd been forced to play . . .

_But he was better than Charles_, Reid interrupted himself, trembling at the mere memory of the sadistic, angry man. When seeing him for the first time, Spencer had again tried to establish his role as willing submissive, to make it known that he meant no harm . . . and what he'd wound up with was one furious religious fanatic slamming a hammer into his bare foot . . .

. . . Another thing Reid _did not want_ to think about.

He was still shaken to his very core by the fright he'd only barely been able to bite back, and even more so by the tremendous amount of pain he'd been in.

_The hands and feet are the two most sensitive areas in the human body,_ his mind quipped before the young doctor could force it to shut up, exasperated by his inability to focus even now.

Of course, he might have been having so much trouble lamenting over his aching foot because it wasn't, . . . well, aching. Not so bad, anyway.

Cautiously, still nervous about arousing any unwanted attention, Reid peeked over the side of his chair at his left foot below. What he saw made him want to throw up.

It wasn't broken – of that, he was sure. It was, however, bent at an awkward angle, strained, and covered with blossoming purple bruises. Reid tried to wiggle his toes, and gasped slightly at the white-holt bolts of pain that darted up his leg. Cringing, he forced himself not to make another sound, and leaned back against the chair.

_Bad, _he knew. _But, . . . not as bad as it should be. _Why didn't it hurt more?

Slowly, for the young genius, the answer came out of the still-muddled fog of his thoughts – thoughts that were so muddled _because_ of the _same_ reason he wasn't screaming in agony.

_Drugs._

Spencer's lip quivered and he blinked away tears, gritting his teeth. Another thing he _didn't want_ _to_ _think_ _about_.

But how could he not?

Reid cursed himself over and over again at the memory; Tobias promising that it would help, ignoring his pleas, sticking that horrible needle in his arm . . . Reid shook his head, disgusted with himself; it was the first time in his life he had ever begged, and he still hadn't been able to escape it.

_It was pathetic. _

Reid didn't like the idea of drugs, or anything that surrounded them – he'd seen the drastic effects that even physician-prescribed medication could have on his mother Diana when he'd been growing up . . . and with the terrible odds he had for developing some sort of degenerative disease himself, the young genius was wary of and pharmaceuticals, and rarely took more than an occasional aspirin.

Which was why the idea of being forcibly injected horrified Spencer so much; it was painful to be so helpless, and scary to have things put in his body without his approval. _And, even worse, _he thought, _was being unconscious_. Reid knew that his chances of coming out alive at the end of this were dramatically low; but he couldn't help but feel that he stood a mildly better chance if he was _at least _awake and lucid during his captivity. Deep down, the genius would have preferred being humiliated, exhausted, terrified, in pain, and at least _coherent_ to being blacked out, totally at the mercy of the madman holding him hostage.

_Hostage, . . . _Reid hated that word, especially when it was being applied to him. He was anxious and powerless and so very, very alone; and, more than that, he was _tired _of it already. One day – or two, or three, or _however many_ it was so far or was going to be – was too much, and Spencer knew that he had to do something. The only way that this could foreseeably end was with his death; he couldn't hold off Raphael or that fanatical father of Tobias forever. And even if he _could _manage to stretch out his life for a few days more, what could that possibly reap? Stockholm Syndrome, onset stress or psychotic delusions of his own . . .

Reid glanced down dreadfully at his right arm, and winced when he saw the swollen red injection sites, cringing in shame. _God, drugs, . . ._ he thought woefully, shaking his tangled tresses out of his eyes. _I couldn't even – wait._

Reid's eyes shot back down to his forearm. _Injection __**sites, **_he realized, and counted the puncture wounds on his skin. _One, two._

Realizing that he had been drugged not once, but _twice, _nearly sent Reid over the edge; statistically, he knew, his odds of living to remember this encounter had just dropped to minimal. What was more than that was his horror at having not only been unable to defend himself from another sedating was the fact that he _could not remember when it had happened. _

He knew that Tobias had given him drugs when he'd seen the pain that Reid's foot had been causing him, . . . but, other than that . . .

Desperate tears dotted the corners of the young doctor's eyes at the thought that he might already be losing, it, be _breaking, _at the hands of this very sick, very mislead man. _It could all be ending before it even begins, _Reid grieved, the horror of everything that had happened to him in the last day catching up and washing over him in one fell swoop.

He had to get _out _of here. _Had to._

Reid sucked in a huge breath, forcing himself to calm down – or, at least, to lock away those feelings of terror and helplessness to be dealt with later – and consider his options.

He knew that breaking free would be an impossibility.

Before he had met Charles for the first time, when he'd come to, he had been examining the cuffs binding his hands, to see if they could be broken into, or out of, or even slipped over his skinny wrists – but it had been to no avail, and had only seemed to piss of Tobias's father when he'd seen what Reid was doing.

Spencer had also tried to move from his chair; but the surprising amount of strength held by his leather restraints, as well as the surprising _lack _of strength in his own body (a result of no sleep and no food, his own pained foot, and whatever Tobias had injected him with, no doubt) had made his attempts painfully futile.

When all else had failed, Reid had tried to establish a rapport with all three of the individual personalities that were keeping him here; he'd tried to be sympathetic, unimposing, and of virtually no threat. But all that had gotten him was a gun stuck in his face, yelling, an attack, and, eventually, put under.

Reid tried not to let his frustration with own inability pull him away, but it was extremely difficult. He couldn't help but think about his friends, his fellow agents, and how _they _wouldn't be sitting here, wallowing and without a plan.

Morgan would have been able to fight his way free in a matter of minutes.

Gideon could have talked his way into Tobias's head and out of this whole situation, before the sun went down.

And Hotch . . . he wouldn't have gotten taken in the first place.

But Reid _had _gotten taken, he _was _here, and he _did _need to do something – something that played to his _own_ strengths.

_The profile._

Spencer knew that, somehow, he had to use his intelligence, his heart, and even his tendency to easily displayed emotions to somehow manipulate his captor(s) into keeping him alive – and hopefully, any more innocent people from dying, as well.

_With Raphael, _Reid knew, _it's all about listening to his message. He needs someone to guide into "God's path" . . . if I let him think that he's in control, that I can bend to his will, then I shouldn't raise any alarms with him . . ._

Charles, Reid knew, would be significantly harder. The man had already made it clear that he didn't like the young genius, and in fact would take great pleasure in killing him, the sooner the better. What he would have to do, he figured, was shake the man up – resist his will, deny all accusations, . . . _stand up to him, _Reid acknowledged; it would be best to keep Charles frustrated with him – Spencer was sure that Tobias's father wouldn't want him dead until he had 'confessed.' The longer he avoided that, the longer he avoided some sort of demented sentencing from the man.

It was Tobias, Reid knew, that would be the most important. _He _was the one most similar to Spencer himself, _he _was the one who felt guilty and uncertain about everything the lot of them had done – _he _was the one who had tried to . . . help . . .

_If I can gain his sympathy, his approval – and if I can reassure him that his evil father won't be able to hurt him, that __**I **__can protect __**him**__ from harm, _Reid reasoned_, then I might just be able to get him lucid for long enough to take me away from here. And, then, it's just a matter of time, until . . ._

Until what, Reid himself wasn't sure. He knew, deep down, that his profiling job was a hasty one, a shaky one made in fear and with bias – and that his ideas on how to turn the situation to his advantage were hanging by a thread. But unless he could contact his team somehow, or, even more unlikely, Tobias and his alter egos had a miraculous change of heart, that it was _all _he _could _do.

Spencer nodded to himself, rapidly, trying to angle all of the doubt out of his mind. He was hurt and scared and uncertain, but _doing __**something**__ was better than –_

–the floorboards behind him creaked loudly, and Reid could hear the sound of footsteps approaching, getting louder and closer. His heart stopped, and Spencer forced himself not to hyperventilate. When the shuffling movements ended, Reid could feel a warm presence right next to him, and he froze, willing whoever (or, rather, _whichever_) was next to him to think he was still asleep, and, _maybe, _to just move on.

There was a moment of silence, just a fragile heartbeat of nothingness, and then movement as the body next to his own leaned in closer.

_Maybe not._

He sensed, rather than saw, an arm reaching out towards him, and reacted instinctively. Reid didn't like being touched – never had – and especially _here, _especially _now, _and especially by _this person_, he was more stricken than ever by the thought of contact. Ducking his head and squirming to the side of the chair, he shied away from Tobias, cringing, not wanting to be anywhere near the other man.

Too late.

Thick, strong fingers dug into his scalp, and then his hair was twisted painfully into an iron grip. Reid was so concerned with the sudden new agony to his body that he almost missed the words that came floating down quietly into his right ear.  
>"You're awake."<p>

_Charles._

Reid swallowed tightly, trying to remember his resolve from earlier, digging deeply into himself to find some courage, _any _reserve of strength he had to bear this, to _survive _this.

"You ready, boy?"


	2. After Trying

**Author's** **Note: **After having to consult with my Menu Design group about our collaborative project, and finding out that those little *explicative* *explicative* *explicatives* haven't done _anything_ resembling work in the six weeks since we've started this schebang, I was feeling . . . well, slightly murderous. And we all know that Reid gets the brunt of my psychotic pissed-off-ness these days.

I have another fic in mind, but don't want to start it yet; I need some cool-off time before I try to sit down with another project, for fear that all of my personal crap is going to interfere with what I want to be a good story. So, to any I've promised some Morgan-Reid stuff; IT IS COMING. I have an idea, and I've got the beginnings of a document on my computer; I'm just waiting for the rest to come naturally.

In the meantime, have this. Yet another "Revelations" thing, lots of angst to spare. This takes place right before Reid was sent through the cameras to his team, when he got attacked by Charles and subsequently had his seizure from shock and overdose. I still get the shivers watching that scene . . . Oh . . .

**Warning: **This writing exercise contains HUH-YUGE spoilers for _Criminal Minds_, Season 2, Episode 15. DUH. Also, there may be violence, illusions to violence, confirmed drug use, and thoughts of a darker adult nature. You've been warned.

**Disclaimer: **I grew into the very disturbed person I am with the help of this show; but, alas, _Criminal Minds_ is not something I list under my assets. Many kudos to those lucky bastards who _do_ have that right. *Sighs*

As always, review if you feel up to it, don't if you're down with it.

Enjoy, of course!

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><p><em>"If you're going through Hell, keep going." – Winston Churchill<em>

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><p>When Reid was once more released from the brief, blank reprieve that being unconscious provided, the darkness around him was so empty and complete that the young genius wasn't even sure that he was awake, yet. He pinched his eyes shut, and shook his head doggedly for a moment, until the ringing in his ears had stopped. When his lids again parted, Spencer was relieved to find that a small bit of color was pricking at the seemingly endless emptiness before him. And more was coming in – as his eyes adjusted, the cabin around him became clearer, and he was able to recognize the things around him.<p>

As he had every time he'd come to before, the first thing Reid looked at was the window – through which he could see the backdrop of midnight blue, and a few, lone stars pinpricking the sky.

_Night, _he thought loosely. _Another night . . ._ Did this mean he had slept through another full day? Or was it just later in the evening of the same day that . . .?

Reid's entire face crumpled as he remembered. He had killed someone –_ two someones_ – because he had been scared and weak and –

_No, _Reid interrupted himself, his inner voice fierce. **_You_**_ didn't kill anyone. Charles and Raphael did. You were coerced –_

_I could have held out –_

**_No_**_ you couldn't have, not when Tobias – _

_Tobias._

With the thought, the young doctor's entire body jolted, and his head shot up, immediately searching for the other man, for any sign of any threat in any place.

At first, the room seemed as empty and as desolate as before. And still stinking of burned fish. But as Reid's vision cleared, and he strained forward in his seat, he could finally see the slouched figure of Tobias Hankel and a set of computer screens, in the room just in front of him. The door was cracked open slightly, and when Reid leaned forward, he could see that his abductor was typing on one of the monitors. Spencer squinted, and was just able to make out the image on the screen.

_Oh, God. _

He was watching the murders – for what time, Reid had no idea. Their profile said that the sadistic side of the unsub would have to relive his crimes over and over again . . . And if that's what was going on now, it could only mean one thing.

_Charles_ _was present. _

Reid felt his breath catch, felt himself starting to breathe in and out entirely too fast. His vision began to fog, and the blood was rushing to his head. He couldn't hear anything, couldn't see anything, couldn't think, couldn't _breathe –_

Mumbled cursings from the form in the other room made Reid freeze, his insides crawling.

It wasn't the voice of Tobias's father he heard.

It was Tobias.

While that was hardly a _better_ option to be faced with – not when he was restrained in a chair and slowly breaking down – it was a _more_ _preferable_ option, and Reid's tensed-up shoulders relaxed.

But the rest of him didn't. His heart was still beating wildly, his vision distorted and his hearing bouncing around in echoes; his body was feverish and soaring, but he was shivering, and cold sweat was running down his face.

Reid gulped, and tried to think of something simple, something pleasant, to distract him – he knew he had to calm himself. His body was reacting to his environment, was shutting down, and, if he wasn't careful, Spencer knew he could black out again. He shuddered at the thought, and tried to remember his team; Morgan, JJ, Emily, Garcia, Hotch, Gideon . . .

_That message Gideon left_.

Reid almost smiled at the memory, but his happiness was hollow, and the stretching of his lips seemed a Herculean task. Gideon had been trying to help, trying to reassure Reid that he would be okay, that they were, in fact, coming . . . But Reid simply didn't believe him.

No matter what the senior profiler thought, Spencer _had_ gotten that couple killed. Tobias – or, his father – had done nothing more than threaten Reid, had yelled and gotten too close for comfort and had completely taken aback the young genius, and . . .

. . . _and he'd caved._

_Caved._

Reid hated himself in that moment; for being so stupid as to get kidnapped in the first place, for not being able to fight his was free or talk himself out now that he was here, and, most of all, for being so intimidated by unkind words and someone stepping into his littler personal-space bubble that he'd made a rash, unthinking decision, and now two people were dead. _Two, _instead of one.

Reid tried, even now, to rationalize, to reason with himself that even having one person murdered was hardly preferable – but it didn't matter. His mind was already replaying the scene, forcing him to watch an innocent set of people meet their doom, once more – just the first time of many, he was sure, that he would have to relive what he'd done.

_Maybe not_. The thought came unbidden, and Reid was reluctantly bitter to admit the possibility that, maybe, he _wouldn't _have to keep seeing that couple's blood sprayed across their living room for much longer – because he might not _be alive_ much longer, and –

_No. _Reid took in a sharp breath, trying to orient himself, trying to _focus_.

_They'll find me,_ he thought, hoping desperately. He'd left a clue, after all . . .

_An extremely cryptic one,_ his mind snarled back at him. _Even __**you **__would have a hard time trying to tie the word "poacher" to anything relating to Tobias, and then just whip out a location._

Reid knew that it was a faint hope, and a small message – a last resort, really – but he had to hold on to the idea that his team members were searching for him. That they _wouldn't_ just give up.

Gideon had said as much in his video.

The thought of that immediately, consequentially, jetted Reid back into remembering the crime scene they had been investigating in the background when the older profiler had sent the message; the people that had been murdered, what he had done . . .

Spencer felt himself starting to panic, and he did his best to force the crushing waves of guilt and shame and sadness away. His body protested the sudden flood of intense emotions by reacting sickeningly further, and the young genius doubled over in pain, sure tat he was about to throw up.

_What is __**wrong**__ with me?_ He thought desperately, trying to hold in the nausea and steady his erratic breathing.

It was perfectly natural, under the circumstances, to be frightened, and feeling a little ill . . . but this was more than that, Spencer recognized. He truly felt . . . _bad._

His blood was rushing through his veins so rapidly, giving Reid a sort of buzzing feeling, like he was floating in the air . . . at the same time, his bones ached, as though someone was slowly compacting them, crushing them inch by horrid inch.

He was sweaty, itchy, and cold. He simultaneously wanted to fall asleep, and jump up out of chair and run around. He couldn't close his eyes for more than a second, couldn't follow one train of thought long enough to complete an idea in his mind, and his heart felt like someone had wrapped a fits around it and was slowly squeezing, as if trying to make the organ burst.

_Uncomfortable _didn't even begin to describe how he was feeling; Reid was in agony, and only kept himself from whimpering – or anything louder – at the thought of Tobias; if the kinder personality was present, and he thought that Reid was in pain, he would surely try to shoot him up again.

And if Charles was present instead. . .

Biting his lips, Spencer forced himself to keep quiet, and, slowly, the nausea and achiness in his fiery limbs began to ebb away, and he felt like he could breathe again.

Slowly, so as not to arouse either the other man's attention or another flare-up from his own body, Reid opened his eyes, and scanned his figure, trying to assess any damage.

_Nothing new from before_, he thought, bitterly, as he took in the sight of his wrangled, exhausted frame. His foot was still bent wrong and coated with marks, but hurt no more than earlier, and at least it had stopped swelling . . . he could still feel the dried blood coating the left side of his face, but that, too, was nothing compared to what it had been yesterday . . . There was a faint itchiness emanating from the crook of his right arm, but that didn't surprise Spencer; _Probably just those needle wounds, and –_

Once again, Reid interrupted himself mid-thought. An idea had occurred to him, and he glanced down at his aching appendage, silently _praying _that he was wrong.

All three needle marks (and it still disturbed Reid greatly that he could not remember where one of those had come from) were swollen, a painfully obvious red color on his pale skin, and heat seemed to radiate from them, searing into his body.

A medical doctor Spencer Reid was not – but he didn't need to be, to do the math. He'd been dosed – he shuddered – _three times, _over the course of approximately 35-36 hours. If one figured that each injection had been enough to make him hallucinate – _approximately two grams for myself, _Reid reasoned – then that would mean he'd taken close to ten grams in less than two days, and . . .

_ . . . and I'm going to overdose._

The thought terrified Reid, and he could immediately feel his heart starting to race again, and frantically tried to force himself to calm down, breathing in slowly and deeply.

After a moment, his body, while still tense and pulsing with it, returned to a relative state of normality, and Reid was able to think clearly again.

_So he'd had too much . . . _Reid shook his head, frustrated still by his not knowing just _what _it was Tobias kept injecting him with. He could determine, by the way it kept knocking him unconscious, that it was some sort of a form of depressant; and, as it was in a needle . . . _Heroin?_

_God, no_, Reid pleaded, not caring for a moment that he was not a religious man, and that, even if he was, no _God_ had been near this place in quite some time. All he could think about was how easily, how quickly and mercilessly, one could die if they were strung out on _heroin. _He prayed, begged, did everything short of getting on his knees and testifying, that _that _wasn't what Tobias kept shooting him up with.

_Please . . ._

After a few moments, Reid returned from his dark and muddled thoughts, trying to reason with himself. The fact was, no matter _what_ Tobias was giving him, he knew he couldn't afford another dose. His body was already desperately trying to pump himself clean of the toxins, cooking them out with fever and trying to vomit out the rest . . . one more injection, Reid knew, and it could very well be too much for his heart.

_He could die._

_A seasoned FBI profiler, held hostage twice, only to meet his end at the hand of one-too-many times taking drugs, _Reid thought bitterly, before forcibly reminding himself that he wasn't _taking _anything; _Tobias_ was _forcing _them on him.

_He _was still innocent.

_Wish I could convince Charles of that, _Reid reflected for just a moment, before his thoughts turned back to his own doings. _For how much longer _would he _be _innocent – if he even still was? And, somehow, Reid doubted that, as he thought over everything that had happened – from all the way back to his mom and dad, to the way he had had to manipulate the dangerous people he hunted and occasionally came face-to-face with at work, even back to his lies to Tobias, and how he could_ save them both . . ._

Reid snorted, disgusted with himself, and then shook his head violently, reaching up to rub his eyes, to change his thoughts, to wipe everything off . . .

_Oh, right, _he remembered, as his wrists strained and ached against their handcuffs.

He had to stop wallowing, had to remember _who _he was and _where _he was and _what _he was doing there – and, as his heart began racing again, Spencer realized that he _especially _had to remember his physical state at the moment – to _calm down _and_ think. _

Reid still had no idea as to whether or not he would get out of this situation alive or not – and his hope was waning with each passing minute that he was still locked up in a cabin with a fanatical killer – but he knew that, whether or not the team had understood his clue and was coming, his best chance at survival now lay in stalling for as long as he could.

Reid winced, knowing that the longer he lived, the angrier Charles would become, the more likely he would suffer – more games of one-sided Russian Roulette, probably more beatings, and, as a result, more drugs – but being alive and in pain was preferable to death in any form; and Spencer Reid did not want to die.

_It would be best to just keep quiet, _he recognized, listening again for more sounds of movement from the room in front of him.

Talking had gotten him nowhere. Begging had gotten him nothing useful. Pleading, screaming, crying, plying, and even lying had done nothing to help his situation whatsoever.

_So, _Reid decided, _I'll just stay silent. No more words, no more sounds, no more gestures –nothing. It might just be the best way to keep Tobias off-kilter until . . ._

_Well, until __**something. **_

The young doctor just stared at the ground then and for the next several hours, completely lost in a tangle of his own thoughts and hopes and fears, undesirous and unwilling to face what lay ahead of him; wanting, if just for a little while, to retreat into his own mind and ignore the horror that had become his reality.

But, like it or not, reality came knocking when he heard an angered "_No!" _from ahead of him, voiced by Charles.

Reid looked up just in time to see the frenzied alter ego slam a chair across the room in apparent fury, and his breathing quickened, insides running cold with fear.

_Calm down, keep still, be quiet_, he frantically reminded himself as Charles turned to face him, a maniacal glint in his eye. _Don't be scared._

But Reid couldn't help it; he _was_ scared, heart beating loudly and frantically and quaking as he sat there, waiting for whatever was next.

"They're trying to silence my message!"


	3. Resting, Lying

**Author's** **Note: **Is it totally wrong that I just got my first ever wholly negative review yesterday, and I felt like celebrating?

. . . No, seriously. I've been dreading the day when someone would say something nasty about something I hold as dear as my writing, and I would act therein. But now . . . well, yesterday, anyway . . . that time came. And passed. Someone left an unkind review on one of my pieces, and I was sad for about 2.5, but then . . . I made it. Maybe not a big deal for the thicker-skinned writers, but I'm actually fairly proud of myself. The review was left up, and may it be my last bad one ever. As if. *Smiles*

Anyhoo, in lieu of he typical celebratorial policies, I decided to just go ahead and wrap up this baby, thus completing my "Reveal-ations" series at last. I really don't think there's a whole crapload more I can add to the episode anymore. I've fixed all of the errors that so bugged me before, and now there's nothing to do but sit back and enjoy Season Two all over again. Believe you me, I fully plan to.

This is what I think went down between Reid and Tobias when that poor genius got dragged out of his chair to go and dig his own grave - something that _still_ gives me the shudders. Heavily inspired from angelcobra's "48 hours Mystery" _Criminal Minds _crossover, this is the small snippet of what could very well have been the last moments of Spencer Reid's life. Not to be too dramatic or anything . . .

**Warning: **This writing exercise contains HUH-YUGE spoilers for _Criminal Minds_, Season 2, Episode 15. DUH. Also, there may be violence, illusions to violence, confirmed drug use, and thoughts of a darker adult nature. You've been warned.

**Disclaimer: **I grew into the very disturbed person I am with the help of this show; but, alas, _Criminal Minds_ is not something I list under my assets. Many kudos to those lucky bastards who _do_ have that right. *Sighs*

As always, review if you feel up to it, don't if you're down with it.

Enjoy, of course!

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><p><em>"<em>_Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time." __– __Thomas Edison_

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><p>For just a second – one brief, dull, sad and simplistic second – while Tobias (or was it Charles? Raphael?) was uncuffing his hands, a faint thought of an even fainter idea crossed Spencer Reid's mind.<p>

_Escape?_

For the first time in nearly three days, he wasn't restrained; his hands could reach up to touch his face, he could stand up without dragging the horrible wooden chair with him, he could stretch, he was . . .

_ . . . free?_

It was only a moment, of course, but, right then and there, flashes of the determined genius and the stubborn fighter, the strong soul – all the pieces of the _old _Spencer Reid – came rushing to the forefront of his mind, screaming that _this _was _happening, this _was an _opportunity, _that _this was a chance to flee._

But in his drug-addled state, Reid only blearily recognized the inner workings of his usually sharp mind. In his long-established fright and horror, shock had set over, and his thoughts were swimming through his mind slowly, lazily, drunkenly. In _this _here and _this _now, the special agent – the doctor, the child prodigy, the genius, and the good, good man – didn't pay any mind to his own mind, shrugged off his brilliant brain with ease, and merely stared at the other man in front of him as he released his sore and aching wrists from their restraints.

_Why . . . why bother?_ He blinked, the sentiment echoing endlessly in his head.

_Why?_

Before tonight, he would still have been fighting – even if it was mere struggling. Before tonight, he would have remembered who he was, what he wanted – what to _do. _Before tonight, he would have _cared. _

Except, now, tonight . . .

_He _didn't care.

He _didn't _care.

He didn't _care._

_Not enough._

_Not anymore._

_No._

And so he just watched his abductor before him, seeing without really seeing as the other man rose to his feet, and made to leave the cabin. Before quite reaching the door, Tobias turned around, and met his prisoner's eye with a look of pure disgust – and, somewhere beneath it, the deeply-buried profiler in Reid could sense a horrifying trace of satisfaction.

_And why shouldn't he be satisfied, _it occurred bleakly to Spencer, _when I finally gave him what he wanted? I confessed. _

_And now, I'm going to die. _

The thought of his life ending should have terrified the young genius. It should have made him cringe, or cry, or at least feel something – _anything_ – more than this vast, blank emptiness roiling inside of him that was all that he felt now. It should have spurred his determination, called him into action.

Not just left him sitting there, barely moving as Tobias's next words washed over his pale form and fell upon ears that might as well have been deaf.

"Grab a shovel."

Slowly, his entire body feeling like it was wading through soup, Spencer lifted his head and gazed the man before, still vaguely trying to evaluate and process everything that was happening to him.

_He's going to kill me, _Reid realized, and only the faintest shudder found it's way down his spine as he realized what, surely, the shovel was going to be used for.

_I'm going to die. _

At that word – and at the horrible, almost unimaginable thought behind it – Reid's entire body slacked, and all thoughts rushed out of him in a burst of air, as he exhaled and slumped down, breaking the eye-contact he's held with the other personality.

The prospect of a near-demise shouldn't feel so empty. Shouldn't feel like . . .

_ . . . like nothing. _

But it did.

_I've already died once, now, _Spencer thought, barely lucid and achingly bitter. _What's going to make the second time so bad? _

_It's not like it'll be anything __**new. **_

He was drained and tired and sick of fighting. He was exhausted mentally, aching physically, and weak from the top of his head to the center of his heart to the tips of his toes. He was letting go, totally detached, still hazy from the aftereffects of sedations.

And Tobias was right there in front of him, guiding him, giving him something to hold onto, to keep from falling back into the blackness of unconsciousness for just a little while longer.

Blinking, Reid slowly stood.

The moment he tried to put his full (though, admittedly, still very small) weight on his legs, Spencer tumbled to the floor, slamming his knees into the hard planks and gasping as the sudden pain cut sharply through his foggy mind.

_God, what was he __**doing? **_

Reid remained in his slump, his hands curled, claw-like, by his side, and stared hard at the ground, his matted and tangled hair hanging over his face and a single tear finding it's way out of his eye and tracing a small path down his dirty sweaty cheek.

He watched, as if from a great distance, as the drop fell onto the floor, and landed on a splintered plank near his feet. He stared, transfixed by the little dot it made on the ground, unable to tear his eyes away from hypnotic mark between his knees.

_So this was what giving up felt like. _

_Huh . . ._

A painful, vice-like grip on his arms, and suddenly, the young genius was torn from his deep considerations by the voice of one extremely impatient and even more angry Charles Hankel.

The other man said something, but Reid didn't hear it, didn't pay attention, until a rough palm came across his face in a harsh, backhanded slap.

He jumped back and cowered slightly, covering his bruised cheek and waiting.

"Grab _a shovel."_

The words were spoken with a deadly, dreadful calm, and, not wanting to incite the man's rage again, Spencer slowly and agonizingly made his was across the cabin.

He glanced around, not believing that _this _was going to be one of the last things he would see before his death. A ramshackle, small, tired old two-room that creaked in the night and let in cold drafts through knotholes and peeling boards.

There was the camera where he'd tried, so many times, to get through to his team, to help them as much as possible in their search for him.

There was the cup of water that Tobias had given him earlier, in a well-meaning but ultimately meaningless attempt to preserve his life.

There was the stove that burned the fish hearts and livers that had failed to protect him; there was the blood-stained hammer that Charles had beaten him with, there was the headstone that had been the first thing the young doctor had seen when he'd been brought back from the dead –

there were the shovels that were going to kill him now.

_He didn't __**want**__ to die._

Deep down, Reid knew that he was certainly _not _okay. He was terrified and angry and sad and losing hope. He was injured, he was coming down from yet another high . . .

But, somehow, seeing that stack of garden tools before him, knowing that he was picking out the one that would undoubtedly be used to _dig his own grave . . ._

He might not be _scared_ of death, anymore.

But Spencer Reid _knew _he didn't want his life to end. He didn't want to go – not _now_, and _not_ here, not with _this_ person, and not _in this way. _

It was if something inside the genius awakened at last, searing it's way through the blinding haze that had been marring his thoughts since he'd last woken up. And, in relief as much as in anxious anticipation, tears sprang into the young doctor's eyes at that beautiful, brilliant mind began trying to formulate just this one last plan, this one last _hope, _of survival.

He reached forward, grabbing the smallest shovel he could, dismayed by how exhausted even that small movement made him.

It was the lack of food, he knew. _And maybe the beatings . . . the drugs . . . even the cold and the worry and the stress and my barely sleeping . . ._

And now, turning ever-so-slowly to face the man who had put him through all of these things, Reid hated himself for the slow way in which he shuffled towards him, his injuries slowing and weighing him down considerably, and his feelings even more so.

Tobias stood back, gesturing outside into the massive graveyard as he held open the door for the young agent – such a polite gesture that Reid smiled a mirthless smile, wondering at how someone who could torture him and sentence him to death could still have the presence of mind to be so gentlemanly.

Their progress into the chilly night air was slow, and, desperately, Reid used the silence during their walk to think, to try and formulate a plan.

He had no idea if his teammates had still been watching when he had sent out that last, frantic clue to Hotch. Maybe they'd been too busy, or maybe he'd upset his boss when Reid had set him up for sacrifice . . . But Reid had to hope that they were somewhere near by, that they had coats and flashlights and a direction in which to go.

He had to hope that they were coming.

And, he reasoned, even if they were nowhere close – even if he was still completely alone and this really _was_ the end of Dr. Spencer Reid . . .

. . . well, he still wanted to spend as much time as possible in this biting, cold, evening air, feeling the dry crunch of leaves under his feet, hearing the crackling of twigs and the call of creatures and things that go bump in the night.

Even if it would only be for a few extra minutes, Reid wanted _to live._

But the dim spark of his hope grew even weaker as he suddenly felt the rough hands of Tobias on his shoulders, and he was shoved harshly to the ground, again landing on his knees and scraping his injured foot on a hidden rock.

Reid squeaked in pain and surprise, and looked up, his lip quivering and body trembling from the cold, as the face of Charles contorted into one of superiority, and the older man pulled out a knife.

"Dig." He commanded.

Reid shivered, knowing instantly what was happening.

He was digging his own grave.

_It won't be long, now. _Reid's heart ached at the thought, and he sniffled as he slammed the tip of the shovel into the frozen ground.

There was nothing left for him to do but dig. He couldn't fight, could hardly speak, and was only just barely conscious at this point.

Reid knew that he could move slowly, could try to make some sort of noise _– anything, anything at all – _but that, at this point, he was effectively useless. His fate would be in the hands of either Charles or Tobias or his own fellow agents – and all Spencer Reid was responsible for now were what would most likely be his last thoughts.

_I'm sorry, Mom – I should have been stronger, should have been braver, should have been a better son . . . You were the best mother any boy could dare to dream of, and you deserved better than me. I hope that you'll forget me quickly. I hope they'll keep you happy at Bennington. _He lifted out the first half-full scoop of dirt, and dropped it at his side.

_Thank you, Gideon. You taught me how to profile, gave me a chance to do something important, and even though all I seem to do is mess everything up, I'll never stop being thankful for your time, your patience, and your dedication. I hope that my replacement makes you proud, instead._ He dug the shovel back into the hole.

_God, Morgan . . . you were my best friend, the first and only one I've ever had. You made me happy, took the time to teach me and care for me and be such a good person . . . I hope the next person you get close to will be better than me. Stronger, and smarter, and more of the kind of friend you should have had, instead. _He lifted the next pile of dirt.

_I love you, Jage. You're the sister that I never got to have when I wanted one so desperately – you've seen me through some bad times, some weird ones, and some uncomfortable ones . . . but you've always been so graceful and kind and loving . . . This wasn't your fault, it was mine and mine alone – and I'll never be upset with you. How could I? I think you were my guardian angel here on Earth . . . I just want that you'll keep helping people like you always did me. _He sniffled, and forced himself to keep moving.

_Hotch, Hotch, what is there to say? I hope you know that I didn't mean it – I never wanted you to die, couldn't imagine the idea of you suffering . . . I was trying to save myself, but I shouldn't have said what I did. You're not a narcissist; you're a good, kind, fearless leader with a rough exterior who taught me how to be more of a man. I can't show you it now, but I hope you inspire everyone you meet in the same way. You change people, you changed me, and I hope that this doesn't change __**you. **_

_Dear, wonderful Penelope Garcia . . . No one was ever going to match up to you, were they? You were the only one who tolerated all of my quirks, who not only never made me feel bad for being a freak, but kind of made me proud for it . . . Don't ever get weak like I did – never stop shining, never stop hoping. Please, please stay . . . _His thoughts drifted, and he fumbled with the shovel in his hands, wincing when he heard Charles hiss in displeasure.

_And, Emily . . . I haven't even begun to get to know you like I've wanted to . . . You're the bravest, strongest person I've ever seen, so compact and controlled . . . and if I could have just been more like __**you, **__then I wouldn't even be here. Just . . . make sure to give your strength to everyone on the team, when you can . . . you can help them a lot more than I ever did._

There were so few people that Reid would miss – and God-only-knew if any of them would really miss him. They'd all be fine, eventually. After all . . . it was just _him. _

Reid's body slacked, unable to keep lifting, and he heard Charles musing as he twirled the knife and eyed Spencer with a look that made his blood run cold.

"I'm going to bury you alive in there, boy. Give you time to think about what you've done."

Before Reid could help it, words slipped out from his mouth as he again sniffed, holding back the onslaught of tears, and rested heavily on the shovel.

"I _know_ what I've done," he whispered, his voice croaky and breaking mid-sentence.

"Don't talk back to me!" Tobias snapped, leaning away from the tree he was resting on, and watching in satisfaction as Reid flinched back slightly. He bent back, still weaving that knife through his fingers.

"_Dig."_

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><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>That's all, folks. Until next we meet . . .


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